


means of refuge

by drowninglovers



Series: alive and well animal pals [3]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brief mention of animal death, Gen, Slice of Life, because NOTHING goes wrong. they find the passage and everyone gets home safe, there's an appearance of collins/orren but not enough to warrant a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:14:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21808750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drowninglovers/pseuds/drowninglovers
Summary: Things are different for cats. Fagin doesn't have any of his kind to get attached to, so he must settle for the men.
Series: alive and well animal pals [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1571461
Comments: 14
Kudos: 26
Collections: The Terror Bingo (2019)





	means of refuge

**Author's Note:**

> -big thank you to [your_loving_vincent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/your_loving_vincent/pseuds/your_loving_vincent) for suggesting a fagin fic to complete the trinity of animal fics!  
> -bingo fill for my free space  
> -animal death mention is in two lines the second paragraph after **"one tiny orange lump [...]"** and **"Or perhaps, his siblings [...]"** as a head's up

From his position in the hold, Fagin the cat is often privy to moments he's sure the crew would be grateful were kept private. It isn't as though this happens by choice _,_ of course. The hold is his home, his domain. Everyone else is an interloper while he's simply trying to do his job by keeping the ship vermin-free. They're lucky he doesn't let them know exactly he feels about unnecessary intrusions by yowling at inopportune moments. But, Fagin is a good cat and a valued member of the crew—that's what someone wrote in the _Erebus Gazette_ : " _while he is not present at mealtimes, and does not attend service with us, I nonetheless consider him a valued member of the crew and believe we should gift him with a Proper Name"._ The letter turned into a three-week-long naming contest of which the runners up were 'Walton' (yes, after Victor Frankenstein’s Arctic companion), and 'Radish' (after the vegetable for inexplicable reasons)—misbehaving would be the quickest way to boot him from the crew's good graces. Instead, he focuses on catching rats and taking naps, the things he could be doing in any house or barn in England. Except this isn't a house or barn, and England will soon feel like an abstract idea, a country someone dreamt up when he needed an excuse to picture that much green after their first winter in the ice. 

Fagin isn't worried much. About the homesickness, the ice and whatever they'll encounter out there at the edge of the map. It's different for cats. He doesn't have a life back home to recall. His mother was not attached to him the way some are, feline or human. He was taken from her breast the second he was old enough. There were other kittens in the litter, two more with his colouring, one a deep, smoky grey with eyes that would deepen into liquid amber (Fagin didn't stay long enough to see the shade of his brother's eyes settle, but he can imagine well enough) and one tiny orange lump that couldn't bring herself to breathe and ended up thrown out with the bin. They could be anywhere. Possibly sold to rich children who would tie silk ribbons around their necks that a parlour maid in East London would break her back working for a month to afford. Used by pickpockets as distractions while they lightened the purses of the parents of those spoiled little ones. With his name and stealth, Fagin thinks he'd have been well-suited to that job. Or perhaps, his siblings were run down in the street, tortured by those with cruel hearts and stomachs twisted in anger, drowned in the Thames. 

It's different for cats. He doesn't have any of his kind to get attached to, so he must settle for the men. He'll miss solid ground and being able to roam, but there's nothing worth weeping over. At least, not like the way George Chambers does when he sits on a crate and cries like something is trying to crawl out of his chest and up his throat. Most of the men cry at some point during the first month, from homesickness or worry about the lives they'll return to, the sobering realization that the world is so much more vast than anyone could fathom or, just plain loneliness. For Chambers, it's likely something in the middle. Nearly everyone cries sometime in the first month but it's the boys who cry the hardest. Chambers bites down on the skin of his palm to keep a wail from slipping out, with the other hand he scratches at the sides of his ribs like he's searching for something buried below. 

Fagin watches from the shadows as the boy allows himself a few more minutes of tears before abruptly wiping his eyes with his sleeve and forcing a mask of composure. When he stands, his legs do not wobble and he doesn't look back as he climbs the stairs into the light once more. 

_(Fagin will see dozens of men seek respite in the relative solitude of the hold in the months of their Voyage. Tears spilling out the second they find themselves alone, or ones that must be coaxed out. Shaky breathing and galloping hearts. Snot-stained collars and red-rimmed eyes. Air forced back into their lungs in gasps, the rare giggle spilling out in relief. Fagin watches it all. Sometimes he creeps out from his hiding spots and will hop up beside a man and nudge him until he can get his mind away from the sobs. Sometimes, but not always.)_

🐱🐱🐱

Billy Orren sighs against the crook of Henry Collins' neck and Fagin wishes they'd hurry up whatever liaison they've elected to have in his territory. It's not as though this is the first occurrence, for Collins and Orren, or the crew as a whole. Normally it isn't _too_ big of a deal. There's plenty of room in the hold for him to retreat and wait it out. However, there is also a gargantuan rat half the length of a man's arm a few paces behind their intertwined feet. 

Fagin knows about the rat because he spent the better part of yesterday pursuing it. He can see a taunting glint in the creature's beady little eyes. The situation leaves him with exactly two options, neither of which are particularly propitious. 

**OPTION A -** self-imposed exile to a corner of the hold where he isn't subject to an array of rather unseemly _mouth noises_ in between discussions of his potential name. Let the rat go and accept defeat. Consider that this vermin may be a bigger problem then he previously considered. 

**OPTION B -** risk the mouth noises, get the rat. 

More mouth noises are audible, which makes the fact that they’re discussing his potential name in the process very unsettling. From the sound of things, Collins appears to be on Team Radish while Orren is on Team Common Sense (in not calling him _fucking_ Radish) Ah, what the hell. He’s going to get that rat if it kills him.

Fagin creeps along the floor, clinging out of sight to the wall. The rat is unmoving, greenish eyes staring back at him with a definite challenge. ‘If you want me,’ it appears to say, ‘you’ll have to catch me’. And that is exactly what Fagin intends to do. An unfortunate complication arises in that there’s no way of getting to the rat without at least brushing by Collins’ boots, but he figures that maybe Collins will be too involved in this deep-sea exploration of the back of Orren’s mouth to be distracted by a cat. The rat remains still, standing its ground with renewed determination. Bravery to the point of potential self-sacrifice would be admirable if this were any other situation. But it isn't. The rat isn't brave for refusing to scurry and live another day, it's foolish and prideful and Fagin is going to kill it. He's almost completely behind Collins when he leans back slightly, nearly tripping over Fagin in the process.

All involved parties pause for a moment. If there is a time to strike, it’s now when he needn't worry about disturbing anyone and when the rat tilts its head in an unspoken taunt. The bastard even squeaks a little. Killing it is going to be _so_ satisfying. Fagin doesn’t normally take much joy in dispatching rats. There’s a certain monotony to the job for him. But this time he is going to positively relish the task. With his ears pressed against his head and body positioned to pounce and land true, he’s ready to spring forward, can already taste the rat’s blood on his tongue—

And then Collins, a gossamer-thin trail of spit still dangling from his bottom lip, scoops him up under his front legs.

The rat lets out another delighted squeal when Fagin tries to wiggle his way loose and claim his kill but cannot get free of Collins’ grip. Savouring that it will live to see another day, the rat races to a darker corner of the hold, tiny feet scrambling over the wave-tossed deck. Fagin yowls in despair before allowing himself to go limp.

Collins dangles him like some kind of sacrifice (his hands are uncomfortably warm, having spent approximately the past 6 minutes on Orren’s back under his vest), and says, with an earnestness that Fagin—if his plans were not thwarted so cruelly, were he not being dangled with little to no support for his lower body, and wasn’t in danger of being named after a root vegetable because the men think it will be funny—would almost find endearing: “don’t you think he looks like a Radish?”

To his credit, Orren simply raises his eyebrows and says in the most blasé tone possible, “I think he looks like a cat”.

_(Countless more liaisons will occur on the hold. Some more daring than others. Stolen kisses in between watch shifts, excuses made to dawdle during an errand. Hands stroking blue-veined wrists and whisker-covered cheeks. Quiet laughter that fills all residual space. Old things and new things and things that have been years in the making but are only allowed to blossom now. Vows are whispered so quiet even his sensitive ears have trouble picking up every other word, and poetry is quoted with divine reverence. Relationships that bloom only in the quiet dark of Fagin’s domain bend towards internal light he cannot see but imagines to be beautiful. And he never does get that thrice-damned rat.)_

🐱🐱🐱

Here is a collection of other things Fagin bears witness to:

John Hartnell leaning against a pile of lumber to take the weight off his sore joints. He slips the boot off his right foot and cradles his ankle before turning the joint several times with the familiarity that comes from old aches. Then, he bends it toward himself and outwards. This action is repeated with care on the other foot. Fagin watches this ritual with a curiosity halfway to fondness. Hartnell does it often enough that it’s familiar to both of them, even if he isn't aware of his voyeur. 

As he’s redressing, Hartnell looks up and sees Fagin’s tail swishing back and forth, only just visible in the splash of light from the deck above them. What follows is an embarrassing display as Hartnell, one foot still stockinged, proceeds to coax him over using the following tactics: cooing and keening the way you would a newborn baby, extending one long arm as far as it will go without his shoulder physically leaving the socket, the same as before but crouching this time, walking towards him in an awkward half-squat. It’s only when Hartnell’s got his body almost completely extended, belly-down on the chilled floorboards, that Fagin takes mercy on him and presses his face against his hand.

/

John Morfin warming a pot of ink between his gloved hands. They’re approaching Greenland by now. Any last letters they wish to send back to their loved ones must be penned and sent off before they venture further into the great white north, or else forever hold their peace. Morfin unscrews the inkpot’s lid and dips his pen, heedful of the fat drop of ink he lets roll off the nib rather than smear his letter. In the next 10 minutes, he fills both sides of a page with details of his daily life, a funny anecdote about Mr. Goodsir’s breadth of crustacean knowledge, a choice quote from Sir John. When he’s got just a few inches left, he signs ‘all my love, your John’. After a minute’s deliberation, he adds a postscript about his new friend, Mr. Weekes, the carpenter. 

Fagin strolls up to him halfway through the letter and settles comfortably against his side. You’d almost think that Morfin didn’t notice his company but for the long scratch he gets under his chin, Fagin’s favourite spot.

/

James Fitzjames decidedly _not_ hurrying down the steps to the hold. His lack of control is betrayed by the solid _thud_ his boots make with the floorboards when he hops the last two steps to the bottom. The noise is enough to wake Fagin from his slumber. He watches passively as Fitzjames tears the hat from his head, pushing his dampened hair off his forehead. When footsteps sound from above, he nearly jumps out of his skin and presses his body to a wall.

Fagin thinks this is very silly behaviour for a commander to engage in. Though, Fagin thinks that most human behaviour is extraordinarily silly, too many rules and regulations and not enough time to relax. Maybe that’s why they’re always so tightly wound. 

Nobody else will be entering the hold at the moment. The commotion from above is the expected noise that comes with a ship. After coming to this realization, Fitzjames sags against the wall. In a move that seems more like an afterthought, he raises a hand to his old war wounds, traces the trajectory of that old musket ball before lingering on the unbecoming scars on his shoulder. A cheetah did that to him. At least, that’s what Fagin's heard. Maybe this wouldn’t be the best time to slink out of the shadows and request affection. Better to leave the man alone with whatever demons he’s yet to vanquish.

Quiet as he can, Fagin relocates to another corner of the hold and tries to resume his nap.

 _(He was having such a_ nice _dream too. Another one about catching that stupid beast of a rat. He chased it through the ship until he finally caught it in the wardroom in front of Sir John and all the officers. They were so impressed by his hunting instincts that he was granted extra food_ and _a specially-made medal for ‘Outstanding Contributions in the Field of Rat Catching’._

 _The kicker is that, in reality, he wasn’t even the one who caught the rat. That honour went to Tom Hartnell, who stabbed the monster with a dinner knife in the middle of a meal. And yes, everyone_ did _joke that he may very well put Fagin out of a job. At least he wasn’t given a medal.)_

**Author's Note:**

> -originally this was going to be a naming contest for fagin. i got 700 words into that fic, realized it sucked and i was pulling teeth trying to write it so i just stopped and opened a new google doc and now i'm much happier with this one  
> -title is from the quote “There are two means of refuge from the misery of life — music and cats.” which is attributed alternately to alberts einstein and schweitzer.  
> -i'm [@nedlittle](https://nedlittle.tumblr.com) on tumblr and [@kitnotmarlowe](https://twitter.com/kitnotmarlowe) on twitter  
> 


End file.
